C. Box: Cold Wind

Bud Longbrake Jr. sat in the very back row with several of his colleagues whom Joe had seen outside the Stockman’s Bar that day, and his sister, Sally, was broken and shriveled in a wheelchair placed next to him in the aisle. Joe hadn’t seen Bud’s daughter for years and not since her accident, and he barely recognized her. She didn’t look back, and Joe assumed she was under medication. Shamazz did look back, defiantly, and Joe turned around.

“Odd they’re here,” Marybeth said, echoing his thoughts.

Both attorneys returned to their desks and shared the result of the conference with the judge with their co-counsels, and Hewitt returned to his seat. Joe could see a stack of papers on the judge’s bench off to the side of his microphone. He recognized a manual deep in the stack as a copy of the Alaska hunting regulations. Joe smiled grimly, reminded that the trial would proceed quickly since the Dall sheep season would close in just over a week.

He noticed Marybeth, like the other spectators, kept turning and looking over her shoulder toward the double doors manned by the bailiff, Stovepipe. She was waiting for the first appearance of Bud Longbrake.

Dulcie Schalk prolonged the anticipation by calling a technician from the local phone company as her first witness instead of Bud. As she did, the air went out of the room. Joe half listened to the technician as he explained a call record list that was being shown on the screen, detailing the dates Missy’s phone called Bud’s phone and vice versa, and allowing himself to be led to the conclusion that the telephone conversations increased in frequency and length on the days leading up to the murder.

When the doors opened, even the phone company technician paused to look up.

Joe turned as well, but instead of Bud Longbrake, two of Marcus Hand’s investigators eased into the courtroom, surprised at the attention they’d drawn to themselves. Although they wore sport coats and ties, Joe thought both of the men looked rumpled and tired. Like they’d been traveling nonstop to get there.

Judge Hewitt was obviously annoyed and glared at Hand but didn’t admonish him. He waved at Schalk to continue questioning the technician, and as she did, the two investigators went silently up the aisle, heads down, trying hard but failing to be inconspicuous. Joe watched as they took seats directly behind the railing separating the defense table from the gallery, and leaned over the railing to whisper to Marcus Hand. The attorney rocked back in his chair, presenting his ear but not turning to them, and Joe tried to read Hand’s face as he heard the results of their trip to Chicago. Hand displayed no emotion but stared vacantly at a spot above the jury box while he listened. Joe couldn’t recall seeing anything like it before while court was in session, but then again he’d never been a witness or participant in a trial where the defense lawyer had a team of underlings to send out on the road. Jack Pym glared at Hand and the investigators, and Dulcie Schalk shot angry glances at them while she went through her list of questions for the technician. Joe saw a few members of the jury, the ex- city employee in particular, watch the exchange with interest.

When they were through, Hand turned to one of them and mouthed, “You’re sure?”

Both investigators nodded. And for the first time, Hand let go a little smile before he settled back around and pretended to pay attention to the telephone company expert.

After Marcus Hand told Judge Hewitt he had no questions of the witness, Hewitt called for a twenty-minute break.

Behind them, Joe heard one of the Stockman’s Bar group tell another, “Bud’s here. Somebody saw him being taken into a room down the hall. He’s going to be called next.”

“How’s he doing?”

“He looks like hell.”

Marybeth left Joe to be with her mother during the break. Joe milled around in the hallway with a dozen other spectators, listening with one ear to the speculation being offered and texting Sheridan that Bud was about to testify.

He pushed through the front doors and stood with the smokers for a few minutes, wrapped up completely in his own thoughts.

It was a crisp day, cool and clear, and he could see the peaks of the mountains had been dusted with snow overnight. The top of the stairs afforded a good view of the trees in town, most blushing with gold and red. The smokers on the steps were talking to each other about which areas they’d drawn deer and elk tags for, and how they were looking forward to hunting season. Someone joked about not saying too much in front of the game warden, and Joe smiled cryptically.

He was trying to imagine what the investigators had told Hand, and why Hand seemed so self-assured in court. Maybe that was simply his way of putting the jury at ease, bringing them along on his river of charm and self-confidence.

As the smokers looked at their watches and stubbed out their smokes, Marybeth appeared on the steps. She looked slightly stunned.

“What happened in there?” Joe asked. “Did you hear what they found out in Chicago?”

“No,” she said, obviously distracted. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“Joe,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “My mother took me aside and said she wants us to move out to the ranch. She wants us to live in the old house and she’d like you to manage the operations.”

“What?”

Marybeth shook her head. “She said she’s gotten to the age where she realizes she wants her family around her and she wants to show her appreciation for our support in this. Joe, she said she wants us to eventually inherit the entire place.”

Joe stepped back. He said, “Your mother said that?”

“She did,” Marybeth whispered. “She said she wants to make sure we never worry about money or our future again for the rest of our lives.”

“What did you say?” Joe asked. His head was reeling.

“I didn’t know what to say. I told her we could talk about it when the trial was over. I thanked her, of course.”

“The whole damn thing?” Joe said. “The biggest ranch in northern Wyoming?”

Marybeth simply nodded.

“How can she do that?” Joe asked. “If she’s in prison, the whole place will go into probate or something. We have no idea who will actually own it. Banks or trusts or whoever. It won’t be hers to give away.”

“Joe, think about what she’s offering.”

“I am,” he said. “But she can’t offer anything unless she’s free and clear.”

Marybeth shrugged, as confused as Joe was.

When Joe helped guide her toward the doors, he noticed that her arms seemed to have turned into jelly. As had his legs.

They sat in their seats. Joe could barely concentrate on the proceedings.

But he heard it when Dulcie Schalk said to Judge Hewitt, “The prosecution would like to call Bud Longbrake Sr. to the stand.”

Bud did look like hell.

Joe found himself grimacing as his old employer and ex-father-in-law slowly made his way up the center aisle of the courtroom. Instead of sixty, Bud looked eighty. He was stooped and drawn, and his suit, which Joe remembered from Bud and Missy’s wedding six years ago, hung loose and baggy on him. The collar of Bud’s Western dress shirt gaped at least an inch. He peered out of it like a turtle looking out of its shell, Joe thought, and Bud’s pants hung around his legs. Bud held his Stetson in his right hand, and reached out with his left from chair top to chair top for balance as he proceeded toward the bench.

“My God,” Marybeth whispered. “Look what’s happened to him.”

Joe was surprised when Bud glanced over as he passed. His eyes were rheumy and unfocused, but for a split second Joe could see the man he remembered somewhere in that shell. Bud seemed to acknowledge the spark of recognition.